


Lone Wolf Spiders

by ladyknightanka



Series: Along Came a Spider-Man [1]
Category: Amazing Spider-Man (2012), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Banter, Coulson Lives, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Mentions of Gwen Stacy, Mentions of Steve Rogers - Freeform, Mentions of Tony Stark, Mentors, Mild Language, Role Models, Snark, Superfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker can't help feeling like he's being watched, even when he isn't Spider-Man. He's not wrong, of course.</p>
<p>Or, the one in which Coulson stalks Peter, but for a good cause. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lone Wolf Spiders

**Author's Note:**

> I watched The Amazing Spider-Man. Words happened. Oops?
> 
> If anyone is patient enough to get through this, the Avengers will show up eventually. I always love seeing bits of different media (canon and fanfiction) where Peter is a total fanboy around them, and I can never get enough, so I finally figured I'd contribute. :D
> 
> Hope it's not godawful!

-

Lone Wolf Spiders

-

_Wolf Spiders: members of the family Lycosidae, from the Ancient Greek word meaning 'wolf'. They are robust and agile hunters with excellent eyesight. They live mostly solitary lives and hunt alone._

It’s just a niggling sensation in the back of Peter’s brain, not quite as off-putting as the typical, howling tingle of his spidey-sense. The hairs that rise along the nape of his neck may even be attributed to the cold. Anyone else would ignore it, but then, Peter Parker’s not exactly your average teenager.

“Mmph,” contributes the bank-robber he’d webbed to an alleyway wall, mouth covered by a sticky, silky film of white.

“Shh,” Peter replies, waggling his cell-phone in the guy's face. “The cops’ll be here for ya any minute now, buddy.”

He doesn’t want to stick around for their grand entrance, of course. They’d cracked down harder on his alleged vigilantism after Captain Stacy's death. His masked face plasters the police station walls in the form of wanted posters, and he'd crack a joke about being the belle of the ball if it hadn't made things awkward with Gwen, too.

With a jaunty salute 'goodbye,' and a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, Peter scales the body of the bank. On the roof, he presses two fingers into the release of his web-shooter and employs the string of biocable that erupts from it to swing from building to building until he’s finally in Queens.

There, he quickly changes out of the suit in a secluded alley and meets his aunt in the foyer of their house. She smiles at him. The sweet expression soothes his frazzled nerves, though not by much.

“How was your study session, Peter?”

“G-great, Aunt May,” he says, only a little bit breathless. “I’m definitely gonna ace that test, I swear.”

The curl of her mouth stretches wider. She's been worried, he knows, about how his grades had declined since Uncle Ben's death, so even if it means extra work, he wants to do better by her. “That's wonderful! You missed dinner, but I left a covered dish for you in the microwave. You can just heat it up, honey.”

“Thanks,” he replies, but waits till she returns to her bedroom before hurrying into his own and peering out the window.

No one’s there, as expected – or, well, no one out of the ordinary, as far as he can tell. The cityscape spans on, lights in distant windows as faintly bright as stars in the night sky. They flicker to a symphony of blaring car horns and people’s voices.

Peter’s fingers clench around the sill, but he forces himself to calm down and shut the lower sash. Downstairs, he eats the spaghetti his aunt had left for him, then readies himself for bed, but can't quite shake his unease, even in sleep.

Not long after, a black Lincoln with tinted windows, which had been parked across the street from the Parker home since Peter's return, wades back into traffic and disappears.

 -

The next day, in his peripheral vision, Peter notices a black car tailing him.

His knuckles whiten on the straps of his backpack as he picks up his pace – just fast enough to put space between them without alarming random passersby.

No one would try anything in the middle of a crowded street, right? _Right?_

Before he can well and truly panic, the car swerves around the bend of a new curb and he loses sight of it. He loosens his grip on his bag, emitting a sigh. On top of everything else, the whole experience with Dr. Connors has left him paranoid. Awesome.

Even though it's a chore, he's glad when Midtown High finally veers into view. It offers a much-needed distraction, at least until he catches sight of the halls still under construction from the lizard's attack, and Gwen's empty desk in first period.

They're...reevaluating things. Her mom had decided to pull her out of classes for the last few weeks before spring break, so they could mourn her father's death as a family. Since then, she and Peter have talked only once, which is more his fault than hers. He's trying to fulfill Captain Stacy's last request, trying to give her space so she can figure out if she wants to be around someone as dangerous as him.

Peter frowns at the poor pencil-drawn penis on his desk till his first period teacher enters, at which point he forces himself to sit up straight.

He'd promised Aunt May an A on his exam, after all.

-

When he gets out and discovers no black cars awaiting him, he releases a pent up sigh of relief. He knows it was silly to have worried in the first place, but running around in a spandex unitard has afforded him a new understanding of the caveat _better safe than sorry_.

“You're blockin' my way, Parker,” a familiar voice booms behind him. “Move your scrawny ass!”

Peter levels a half-assed glower at Flash Thompson, but dutifully trudges onto the schoolyard, away from the entrance, so his classmates can dodge around him. It's a testimony to how much things have changed that Flash does just that, rather than coercing him with a well-placed shove.

Peter almost misses the days Flash would kick his ass, if only for the sake of consistency. Almost. Mostly, he considers this particular change one of the few pleasures of having enhanced mutant powers. No one likes getting their ass handed to them, do they?

On his trek home, this time on his skateboard, he sees Flash again, now halted in traffic inside his showy classic car, and shoots him a tiny smirk. Flash pulls a face.

Peter can't help chuckling at that. The bubble of mirth within his chest, a rare thing these days, deflates as soon as he sees the black car again, darkening the sidewalk parallel his house.

He jumps off the board and breaks out into a run, the weight of Spider-Man's suit light in his backpack. If his palms happen to stick on the walls beside him, and he uses them to leverage himself onto higher steps of the front stairwell – well, no one's around to witness it, anyway.

“Aunt May,” he exclaims, as soon as he throws open the inner door.

She blinks at him from a sofa and says, “Why, Peter, you look like you've seen a ghost!”

Perhaps Peter has, because he can't look at her. His wide eyes focus on the suited man sitting across from her, who offers a curt nod of greeting.

“W-who...?”

“Peter, where are your manners?” replies Aunt May, but before she can stand to berate him further, the mysterious man in black extends a hand and halts her, rising in her stead.

“Never mind, Mrs. Parker, it's fine,” he says, smile diplomatic. “Peter and I haven't been formally introduced yet.”

“Or informally,” Peter adds, then flinches at his aunt's glare. He doesn't let it cow him for long, though. Narrowing his eyes at the man, he asks, “Who are you?” this time sans stutter.

“Ah, how rude of me! My name is Phil Coulson, and it's a pleasure to meet you, Peter. We've been meaning to for a while...”

Peter stares at the hand proffered to him. The guy, Coulson, seems nice enough. Crinkles from laugh lines bracket his eyes and mouth. Heck, his name's even _Phil_ , and names don't really get more innocuous than that.

But there's still that shady 'we'...

When the silence stretches on for a minute too long, Aunt May says, “Peter, Mr. Coulson came here to tell you personally that you've been granted an internship with Stark Industries. You didn't tell me you had applied for anything like that!”

“ _S-Stark_?” Peter mimes, and maybe flails a little, too. Okay, a lot. So much for not stammering. At his aunt's enthusiastic nod, he continues, “'Cause I didn't–”

“–know you'd receive it?” Coulson cuts in smoothly. He snatches one of Peter's hands, holds it between both of his own, and gives it a firm shake. “Well, congratulations, Mr. Parker. You've done some impressive work for one so young.”

His gray-green eyes gleam like quarters. Peter swallows to wet his suddenly parched throat, his newly-released arm dangling limply at his side like one of Aunt May's occasionally overcooked noodles.

He's so stupefied, he doesn't even realize that his aunt has gotten up until he hears her thick voice and feels her arms wind around him, breaking him out of his stupor.

She begins murmuring about how proud she is of him, how proud _everyone_ would have been, his father, mother, and uncle, into the torso of his t-shirt, just above the stylized 'A' of the Avengers logo.

Peter stiffens for all of five seconds, then hugs her back, eyes trained on her head so Coulson won't notice how wet they've grown.

The man gives them a few minutes before clearing his throat. His perpetual smile smooths itself into something a tad more genuine.

“Could we, perhaps, converse privately for a moment, Peter?” he inquires.

“I'll go and make us some tea,” Aunt May answers for him.

She flits out of the room before Peter can stop her, and in an instant, he's left alone with Coulson. The two of them size one another up. Peter speaks first.

“If you're here to hurt her–”

“I'm not,” interjects Coulson, laced fingers linked above the last button of his jacket.

Peter thinks it's supposed to be a _we come in peace_ kind of gesture, but it looks more like a b-list megalomaniac's faux-sophisticated steeple. Peter has enough of those in his life, thank you very much.

“Then what _do_ you want?” he asks, for what's probably the third freaking time. Not that he's counting.

Coulson's eyes do that weird, twinkly thing again. “Have you ever heard of SHIELD: the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?”

The question throws Peter, who replies, “I've, uh, heard of the YMCA?”

Coulson doesn't seem perturbed or surprised by his answer. In fact, the corner of his mouth twitches higher, as if in amusement. His eyes drop to Peter's shirt.

“You've at least heard of the Avengers, correct?”

“Well, duh,” says Peter, hackles rising.

He hasn't just _heard_ of the Avengers. Earlier that year, when _aliens_ , of all things, had attacked Manhattan, led by a deranged demigod, Captain America had actually saved his Aunt May from becoming xeno-chow. Peter doesn't think he's felt more grateful to anyone in his entire life.

...So maybe he has a couple of action figures, in their honor. Or a couple dozen.

If they've influenced his decision to take on Spider-Man's mantle any, Peter figures Coulson never has to know. He nods his head, less bite in the motion than his words.

“SHIELD is responsible,” Coulson says, “for assembling the elite task-force you know as the Avengers. Like I told you earlier, Mr. Parker, we've wanted to meet you for a very long time – even before your reptilian friend stomped his way through the city.”

Peter tries and fails to keep his jaw from dropping, but something – a logical something, deep inside, that somehow defies his first instinct to fan-boy the heck out of this information, or quake in fear at the unexpected discovery of his secret – clicks into place. He purses his lips.

“So, what, you wanna scout me or something? Recruit me into your super special after-school club?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, over the 'A'. “Because, dude, I appreciate the offer, but I'm a lone wolf...spider. That's a thing. A _badass_ thing. And Spider-Man's a solo gig.”

“I'm sure,” Coulson says, but he's smirking, the big jerk. “At the moment, however, enlistment into the team isn't in our plans for you.”

Several thoughts pinball through Peter's head at once. Plans? Why the hell should they be planning stuff without telling him? But what blurts out of his mouth is an astonishingly hurt, “Well, how come?” though the reason's pretty obvious.

The Avengers are a top-notch team of adult heroes, whom the government itself, apparently, backs. Peter's a sixteen year old who made his spandex suit himself, using his aunt's careworn sewing machine, on top of putting together his second rate gadgets in the basement, and half the time, the police consider him worse than the villains he catches. Why would SWORD or SHIELD or whatever their medieval equipment-themed group is called want _him_?

Coulson must read the teenage angst on Peter's face because his own softens. He reaches out a hand to pat Peter's shoulder.

“You said it yourself: you work better alone. If that ever needs to be reassessed, we'll handle it,” he says, squeezing gently.

Peter bites his lip, then asks for the umpteenth time, “So what do you want?”

Coulson retracts his arm and inserts it, wrist-deep, into his jacket. For the first time, Peter detects a bit of tenderness in the way he holds his body, as if he's trying to hide an injury. Peter's certainly grown accustomed to that himself, but before he can comment, Coulson fishes out a business card and renders it to him.

Peter scans it over. It's the address to Stark Tower, the heart of the alien invasion that year. He can't believe they honestly want him snooping around there. If anything, he's still not sure it isn't a big joke, or that Tony Stark won't sick a pack of artificially intelligent guard dogs on him the moment he drops by. Or trained assassins.

Footsteps breach the quiet between them. Aunt May, Peter recalls, and her name beats in time with his rushing heart. Whatever he does, he has to think of her first. _Always_.

“I'd like to see you again at Stark Tower, which is a more neutral location,” Coulson informs him quietly, “but you don't have to show up. A date and time are written on the back. You have a week to think about it.”

Peter nods, simultaneous to his aunt's apologetic, “Sorry I'm late, boys. That old stove was giving me hell again.”

“I'll, uh, take a look at it later, Aunt May,” Peter promises weakly.

She beams at him, then at Coulson, before indicating that they should both to take a seat. A tray of tea and desserts situates itself on the table between them.

As Peter eats, deaf to the adults' inane chatter, he takes Coulson's advice. He thinks.

 

-

End!

-

**Author's Note:**

> Did you make it? Did you _like_ it? *bites nails*
> 
> Info on wolf-spiders from Wikipedia.


End file.
